Free Hamsikker: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel by Russ Watts Page B

stuffed it carefully into his belt. “You know, we could check this housing development out. What if the contractors had a show home ready, and they fixed up the kitchen? Would be an awful shame if we missed out. There could be a heap of stuff we could take with us.”
    “Do we really have time?” asked Quinn. “I mean, if we’re not intending to stay here the night, I think we’re better off moving on.”
    “Agreed. It doesn’t feel right up here. It’s too quiet,” said Jonas. “Let’s round everyone up and get out of here. Even if they had any food stored, it would likely be off by now. It’s not worth us rooting around for something that may not exist.”
    “Hey, guys, there’s someone in here.” Randall was standing by a small shack looking excitedly at a green door. It looked like an office, with one square window, and a pile of tools stacked up outside. Set back from the road, the shack probably served as the foreman’s office, and Randall was pulling at the handle. “I can hear them. We have to help.”
    “Shit,” said Jonas. Randall was old, but he was tough as boots, and he would have the door down in seconds.
    Erik and Quinn ran toward Randall, but Jonas was puzzled. Whoever was in there must’ve heard them talking, and yet, hadn’t called for help. There couldn’t be much room inside, especially if there was still a desk, chairs, filing cabinet, and the usual associated clutter. Why stay hidden? As Randall continued pulling on the door handle, the group clustered around him. Jonas watched as Randall picked up a shovel and prised at the door’s hinges. Then it struck him. If whoever was in there needed help, why was the door locked?
    “Randall, stop,” shouted Jonas, but it was too late.
    As Randall managed to prise the door open an inch, a hand appeared through the slight crack, and then it burst open. Three zombies spilled out, one after the other, falling into a messy heap on top of Randall. The dead men were all dressed in work boots, jeans, and open-necked checked shirts. One still wore a yellow hard-hat, and clearly, the men had barricaded themselves inside. Unfortunately, one of them must’ve been infected, perhaps bitten, and it wasn’t hard to work out what had happened to them. Jonas could hear grunting noises coming from the dead, and he hoped their teeth were well away from his friend.
    Jonas watched as the group splintered, some running away from the zombies, some running to help Randall. He saw Erik drag Pippa away as Peter took Freya to safety. Quinn and Dakota practically threw themselves at Randall to help, and Terry jumped in as well, the knife in his hand plunging into a zombie’s back. Outside the workman’s shack, the pile of bodies grew, arms and legs tangling together as the dead and the living merged into a giant game of Twister.
    “Hold still!” yelled Mrs Danick, as she trained her gun on the writhing pile of bodies. Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated her vision on the dead.
    Jonas sprinted toward the chaos, determined that nobody else was going to die today. He could tell from the screaming and shouting that he was probably too late. A shot rang out, and one of the zombies fell away, its head exploding in a mist of red. Quinn and Erik pulled themselves up, dragging away one of the other zombies, and they grappled it to the ground. Quinn held it down as Erik lay into it. Using the butt of his Glock 22, he beat its head to a pulp, not stopping until all that was left was a pile of mush, its brains splattered across the ground. Jonas yanked Randall away, as Terry mounted the third zombie. He straddled it, and held it down with the shovel.
    “Shoot it!”
    Mrs Danick didn’t hesitate and sent a bullet through an eye socket. The zombie stilled, and Terry slipped off it, exhausted.
    “Jesus Christ,” said Erik. “What the fuck was that, Randall? What were you thinking?”
    “I...I thought they needed help. I…”
    Jonas could feel the man trembling in